TONE - SMALL ARM OF SEA
He's French Egyptian and laughs at Draco's pretensions, likes teasing him about them as much as he likes teasing the soft skin at his throat with kisses.
F. is his banker. The last of the English Malfoys and Blacks wouldn't trust himself to anyone he wouldn't trust with his money. And that trust is not easily granted. It took this particular man generations of ancestors and several magically-binding contracts.
They make a beautiful picture. Draco knows, because all his pretensions are backed by knowledge, an eye for beauty, a sharp wit. Flaws come from not being able to step outside oneself and judge coldly and dispassionately. He imagines the pair of them in his head, him tall and dark with tanned skin and a tendency to surprising diamonds and brilliant sharp-cut smiles and Draco only slightly shorter and more fair than an English rose, an impossible pale in the desert sun, eyes like ice and a fondness for silk. He likes that they make a beautiful couple, it pleases him with thrills of vanity when he sees heads turn to follow them down the street. Women in barely-there veils and full burhkas with their smiling eyes, their calculating mothers, their envious and disapproving fathers.
Draco knew enough not to think that the casual touching was a come-on, just a cultural attitude, even if the man was French and not Arabic, but the looks had no excuse. At the end of their first meeting, standing on either side of a large mahogany desk, they shook hands, and their eyes met. F smiled the predator's smile, and Draco gave him back the cold smirk of the willing prey who might bite back at the end of the day.
The setting sun was pleasantly warm on his back as they kissed in the alley outside the restaurant that evening, pooling in his stomach as he inhaled musk and cologne and cigarette smoke. It was languid and smooth, like the rich dessert coffee they'd just drank, nothing at all like school rush and fumble, and perhaps the more intense for that.
He hadn't known how long an orgasm could go on. That sex between two men could last for hours and hours. He hadn't known how much he would like the feel of rough chest hair under his hands or that the taste of semen could be tolerable. No girl he knew would tie his wrists and then follow an ice cube's trail down between his legs, first burning cold and then painfully hot wet of tongue that had him gasping and cursing in frustration in every language he could think of.
Nights on the astronomy tower, a few quick pulls in the changing room shower, they didn't amount to much. He did better than most in that area, but with a keen sense of internal embarrassment at the eternal awkwardness and lack of grace. His mother and father had both told stories of nights after hours, laughing over the close calls and scandalous rumours, but ithey/i were in love and married with rose-coloured glasses. The last thing Draco Malfoy needed coming out of his graduation was bad press from a witch who forgot to take a potion or a wizard with a grudge and with the faded tattoo on his arm... well, there were fetishists and then there were the people who spat at his feet in Diagon Alley. Not much to choose from.
So he went abroad. His Grand Tour, including a stop in Cairo to personally look in on a significant portion of the family fortunes, carefully withheld from the Ministry's books and multiplying slowly but from prying eyes. And he met F, the perfect mentor.
"Oh merlin, oh fuck" he keened, unable to move, closing his eyes and pushing his head back on the muscled shoulder behind him, back making an elegant arch of refined muscle.
"Good, eh?" F murmured sensuously, taking a curl of satin-soft ear into his mouth and sucking. They had bought a woman together, beautiful and curving, from one of the most exclusive budoirs in the city. Draco was currently buried in her up to his balls, her long black hair tangling and sticking to his sweaty hands. Her thick, soft thighs pressed against his hips encouragingly, but he couldn't move. If he moved he would come. Because F was just as deep in him as he was in her, and even the smallest of movements sent shockwaves of electric pleasure over his skin. Forward or back he was trapped in pleasure.
F pulled out slowly a few inches and then gently back in again, making Draco swallow a whimper and open his eyes to stare at the stucco ceiling and fan. The feeling became his whole world, pushing back and forth, soft breasts against his chest and fine hands stroking his hair back from his face. The most that came out of him after that were sighs and the only thing that signalled his orgasm was the tenseness of his whippet body, how his fingers bit into the skin at the back of F's neck, pulling him forward, the urgency of his kisses in the nameless tradeswoman's mouth. He was made fun of for that too, his silent focus, as F talked and talked through the entire thing, his honey mellow voice in French urging him on under the woman's sharp cries. She might have been faking; for once he didn't care. Everything was here and this, with one last "oh" and the universe exploded.
He wasn't passed out, precisely, but later he wouldn't be able to remember the woman kissing him languidly as F slowly fucked him through it, holding him up until he too came shortly after. He did remember in a kind of dream-haze lying on his back with his head tilted to the side to watch F lick his semen out of the girl, licking her until she did come, arching up off the bed and wrapping her manicured fingernails in fabric. Then F crawled over and kissed him in that slow, devouring way that he did, and Draco imagined he could taste all the three of them in his mouth.
Tired and finally feeling some measure of satisfaction in the world and himself, he threw his arm over his eyes against the afternoon light and slept.